The spring is sprung, the grass is riz

And here we are on another fine Monday morning. Rather like the Red Queen, I find myself with six impossible things to do before breakfast. Fantastic.

Unfortunately my focus is quite distracted by the woman on the bus opposite me with the horrible shoes. By now my postion on Ugg boots should be clear (Just Say No) but I'd like to add to that forbidden list all shoes with turned up toes. It may have worked on the Sultan's Grand Vizier, honey, but it does nothing whatsoever for you.

You know, I sometimes think I should give up the day job and just concentrate my efforts on Improving Other People's Lives. It's important to play to one's strengths after all.

Jailhouse rock

I blame Elvis.

No no, I do. It's perfectly reasonable. If not for him, "one quick drink" wouldn't have turned into three bottles of wine and a pizza the size of my head. (And me with a bridesmaid's dress to zip up in less than a month...)

Whose idea it was to capture the midnight boogy on video we may never know. Oh hang on... yes we do.

The good news is that I haven't yet hit the hangover. I'm riding high on the tails of the third bottle and with a bit of luck that and a large coffee will see me through the day.

However. Sometime around bottle two (and well into the booze texting zone) I came upon a terrible thought. Once the Boy and I are cohabiting, who will I text at random times of night with my pearls of alcoholic wisdom? Who will reap the benefit of my 4am insights into the meaning of life? (I like to share these moments when they come upon me.)

I'm going to have to give it some serious thought.

A boy? a Boy??

Oh my god, I have to share my flat with a BOY. A BOY! You know, the ones that aren't girls! The ones with the big feet and the beer and the strange music and the hairgel and the general BOYness! What about all my lovely girl things? What if they catch Boyism?? What if I do???

Oh my god! Where will I put on my facemasks? Where will I keep the Secret Boxes full of memorabilia of Boyfriends Past? What if he finds the bodies under the patio? What on earth will he say when he discovers that not all of my underwear is boyfriend friendly??

Oh my GOD, what if he has Secret Memorabilia too? (... if it's in my flat, it's fair game, right?)

A short history of blogs

So I've been blogging for … err… about five years now. For the last couple of years it's been restricted access only, locking specific bits of my life to specific audiences. Funny what blogging does to the way you think.

As time went on it's become a useful way to decant the singsong of random throughts from my head into the ether, and under pressure from friends (you know who you are) I recently moved across to Blogger, where I could feed my idle thoughts out into the uncaring void. Hello, uncaring void.

Despite my best intentions I've never shut down either of my previous blogs. One of them I still use occasionally to peer into other people's lives (you know you would) and the other has too much history to be easily disposable. I keep meaning to download it, but it just seems a bit much like hard work. You see, those are my memoirs. The adventures, the scandal, the trauma - the blood and sweat (mine) and the tears (others'). The sordid details (and aren't you glad I don't feel the need to share those anymore?). Give me a few more years and you'll see them on a bookshelf somewhere. The names will be changed... but you'll know who I am.

If you're really lucky, you may even be one of the people who receives the discreet little note asking exactly how much it's worth to have your escapades left out...

Rules for life

This post is the first in an occasional series introducing you to my Rules for Life.

It crossed my mind while talking to the Boy last night that I live my life according to a set of very clear but hitherto unwritten rules. I'm going to ease you in gently with a few of the most crucial, and over the next few weeks I'll introduce the others as the occasion demands. Some of them will seem obvious and some more obscure, but trust me: they're all there for a good reason.

Almost a Lady's rules for life (part the first)

1. Always keep at least one bottle of emergency champagne in the fridge. When the emergency comes, a single bottle is unlikely to resolve it without moral support.
2. Try to maintain the semblance of good manners at all times: rude people are appallingly dull. If forced into close quarters with one, don't panic. Restrain yourself to a frosty smile, be unfailingly polite, and leave them with the impression that you were faintly bored with everything they said.
3. If you're over 25 think very, very carefully before you put on that miniskirt. It's not just about whether you can wear it; it's whether you should. You're an adult now and you have a responsibility to the public welfare.
4. If you must lie, lie outrageously. It's more fun for everyone that way.

There are plenty more; after all, it's a complicated world, and there are lots of traps for the unwary 20something to fall into. Armed with these four starter rules you are at least prepared for most of the dramas the week may bring - and if it all goes t*ts up there's always the Veuve to fall back on.

God bless the Widow.

Rubbish

I feel a bit rubbish today. There's no real reason for it... it's just a bit of a grump that I don't seem to be able to shake.

It's not helped by the fact that someone has replaced all of my clothes with horrible unflattering rags, which was more than a bit provoking when I eventually dragged myself out of bed this morning. And as for my hair - alas, if only "dragged through a hedge backwards" was the look I'd set my heart on.

I can only assume that the world is conspiring against me.

And then there were two

I have news.

On Saturday night, as we sipped champagne and snorted Bolivian cocaine from the naked body of a dusky exotic beauty, the Boy du Jour asked me to move in with him. I laughed casually, flicked my long golden hair back out of my face and told him that I supposed it might be quite fun.

Well... some of the above is not strictly speaking true. In fact it happened over Sunday lunch at La Tasca in Angel, and I was so surprised/excited/scared/happy that I pretty much burst into tears on the spot. (And I'm brunette.)

Luckily the Boy knows me well enough to understand that the floods of tears meant yes, and as a result from the middle of April my shiny new bachelorette pad will be acquiring a second resident. At first it's just a four week trial to see how it goes; it may turn out that we can't stand that much of each other, in which case he'll still have his house in Croydon to retreat to and we can cut our losses before it spoils the rest of the relationship. And if it does work... well, that's a kettle of fish which we'll deal with when we get there.

I've only told a small handful of people so far. I like having it as my secret; it's like installing insulation against the rest of the week and the rest of the world. Me and the Boy, sharing the flat! How cool is that?

I think I'm going to be sick.